Let Yourself Go, Malik
by Miss Crossbow
Summary: There are various kinds of people, those who would start a fight the second they get a chance, and those with a patient, still mind, such as the Assassins. But what happens when they DO lose their temper? The consequences might be quite unusual, as Altaïr demonstrated. Crack-fic. AU. Inspired by a song from the fabulous Green Day.


**A/N: A rather humorous piece that occurred to me while replying AC 1 for the 8123734924787th time, particularly in the Assassination Memory of Majd Addin. The first song that crossed my mind was Let Yourself Go by Green Day, for I hated Malik's attitude towards Altaïr in the beginning, so I've plotted a small vendetta for him to enjoy. And I hope he liked it, the slimeball. I admit it's a bit short, but I wrote all I had in mind. R&R, and as always, enjoy! c:**

**P.S. Constrictive criticism is welcome and will be rewarded a cookie upon being seen.**

* * *

It was a fine, normal morning in Jerusalem, leveling the simplicity of any other of its kind. Well, not exactly for everyone.

"Get out and finish your job already, novice!" Malik shouted from his desk, inserting another map before himself.

Altaïr frowned.

"Why do you keep calling me that? I am the Master Assassin, not a novice, no matter how offended or ill your feelings toward me," he declared in an annoyed manner, gripping one of the bureau pillows and rolling to the side.

"Whatever. Go away and do it, novice," Malik repeated his demand with the same eagerness, not changing his dissatisfied voice in the slightest.

And now Altaïr started to lose his patience.

"I thought I've told you to stop, Malik."

The Rafik cocked an eyebrow as he observed Altaïr's lying figure with curiosity.

"What's this? And one would think that a generously given offer to redeem yourself would change your behavior. But one would be grievously wrong," in a completely different way, Malik spoke with obvious pleasure, choosing every word with the precision of a writer.

The Assassin clenched his teeth through closed mouth, his chin buried into the pillow. How long does he plan to continue this hatred? Weeks passed since the incident in Solomon's Temple, but it seems that vengeance remains.

"Oh, silent, are we? Does this mean that you're _actually _listening, hm?" Malik hissed cynically, having more and more fun as each second went by.

And this is when Altaïr stood up with a serious, calm expression, yet fury reflected in his orbs. He walked over to face the Rafik, forcing him to leave the map and chuckle.

"Something to confess, novice?" Malik asked merrily, watching Altaïr send numerous negative glances towards him. Obviously, he thought himself victorious in this argument. But instead of starting another one, Altaïr smiled mystically, much to Malik's dismay.

The eagle ran to the opposite corner of the room to fetch a small drum. He came back, standing steadily, with a focus of a skilled archer who's just about to release an arrow.

"What are you doing, novice?" Malik asked confused, with all the entertainment lost from his face.

After a short pause Altaïr used to think, as a reply, he commenced lightly hitting the drum skin. The rhythm he produced was rather fast, and a few moments later, he sang at the top of his lungs.

"_Shut your mouth 'cause you're talking too much and I don't give a damn anyway!"_

Malik winced.

"_You always seem to be stepping in shit and all you really do is complain!"_

Now his eyes widened.

"_It's your lie, tell it how you like! Small minds tend to think alike! Shut your mouth 'cause you're talking too much and I don't give a fuck anyway!"_

Malik gaped. He struggled to comprehend what the hell was happening.

"_Let yourself go, let yourself go, let yourself go!" _Altaïr proceeded singing, eyes shut and feet slightly dancing to the rhythm. He desired to see Malik's expression once he's finished more than anything in the world at the moment.

As he repeated the chorus, the Rafik's mouth was helplessly left hanging in the air. They say that an image is worth more than a thousand words, but now, he doubted that even that amount of words could explain the image in front of him.

"_Cut the crap 'cause you're screaming in my ear and you're taking up all of the space! You're really testing my patience again and I'd rather get punched in the face! You're stepping on my every last nerve! Everything you say, I've already heard! I'm sick to death of your every last breath and I don't give a fuck anyway!"_

And as he sang the chorus again, Altaïr felt blessed; rage had abandoned his mind and was entirely replaced by joy. Oh how much he longed for a moment like this. He only regretted not doing it long ago.

After he was done with the chorus once again, he simply proceeded to play the drum for a little while as a finishing touch. Deciding that it was finally enough, Altaïr lifted his eyelids, expecting to witness Malik in his loser glory. But instead, the Rafik wasn't in sight, which greatly surprised the eagle.

"Malik…?" Altaïr worriedly cried out, not noticing when Malik had left. It seemed his little performance was laid to waste. If only he hadn't closed his eyes…

As his hand reached to execute a face-palm, someone else hit him in the head, but from behind. Altaïr met the ground, and as soon as he did, he was immediately turned on his back and mercilessly punched again.

"You idiot!"

_Slap._

"You moron!"

_Punch._

"You imbecile!"

_Scratch._

"You damned _NOVICE!"_

And as Malik went full berserk with an add of pure white furry on Altaïr, the eagle grinned through the rain of hits. For once, he was victorious as well.


End file.
